


Quiet Night In

by eloquated



Series: Unexpectedly Wonderful [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Parentlock, Science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 22:59:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: In which Molly and Sherlock eke out a few minutes together after the kids are asleep... And Sherlock discovers that cooking and chemistry aren't so different.





	Quiet Night In

**Author's Note:**

> A little Sherlolly domestic fluff to round off the weekend? Don't mind if I do!
> 
> Also, the show Molly is watching is 'Heston's Feasts', and if you haven't seen it? Check it out! It's absolutely brilliant! (And every time I watch it, I think "Sherlock would love this...!")

“The only possible explanation is that you’ve sold your soul to Satan.”

“You’re an Atheist, you don’t even  _ believe _ in Satan.”

“My belief is irrelevant.  There is no other logical explanation.”

“And me secretly being a Satanist is logical, is it?”

With a huff of half smiling exasperation, Sherlock dropped down on the end of the couch, and slouched down as far as the worn leather would allow, “I never stated that you were a Satanist.  Only that you’ve clearly sold your soul to the old sod.” 

From the other end of the couch, Molly grinned and reached over to sympathetically pat his shoulder.  Privately, Sherlock was fairly sure that she was just humouring him.

“Just because you had to change Ariadne’s nappy, doesn’t mean I’ve made foul arrangements with eldritch beings.  You’re her dad, it sort of comes with the territory.” She reminded him, and settled back against the assorted collection of pillows and stuffed things that she’d collected at her end of the couch, shifting a dense, plush elephant against the aching small of her back.  Nobody ever said that pregnancy was comfortable, but Baby Holmes the 5th seemed determined to do everything the hard way! “Besides, you’re the one that keeps offering to rock-paper-scissors for it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught the cheeky edge of her smile, and felt rather justified in assuming that she’d only been teasing him!  “Mathematically, rock-paper-scissors should give me a 50% chance of winning, Molly. There are only two of us. And yet--”

“I’ve won fifteen of the last twenty.”  She supplied unhelpfully, and Sherlock grunted something by way of confirmation.  “If it’s any consolation, I think Ariadne’s going to be out of them soon. She was eyeing up the big girl knickers when we were at the shop yesterday.  And you know what she’s like when she sets her mind to something.”

“Which leaves Marian. And the new baby.”  Sherlock threw one arm over his face, his grousing half muffled under a very fine (and much abused) silk sleeve, “Maybe I should assume your unprecedented fertility is the result of your demonic deals!  I’m not sure I was consulted on this  _ five children in six years _ \--”

“ _ My  _ unprecedented fertility?!  We both know where babies come from!  And I couldn’t very well do it alone!”

Something stuffed and fluffy collided with the side of his head, and Sherlock dropped his arm, one eyebrow arched as he looked at the bright pink octopus that had fallen into his lap. And the completely unapologetic grin on his Molly’s face.  “You threw a toy at me.” He deadpanned.

And threw it right back at her.

Molly squeaked in laughing surprise, and caught the flying octopus before it could bop her in the nose.  “And you accused me of being a Satanist, and our  _ children _ of being Devil spawn!  I think you had it coming!”  

“You didn’t see the nappy I just dealt with.  I’m not entirely sure they aren’t! Either we need to take her to a doctor, or an exorcist.”  

Sometimes it felt like there was never a peaceful moment and, still giggling under her breath, Molly pushed away from her pillows and curled comfortably into her warm, favourite spot under Sherlock’s arm.  “Are you going to be this dramatic with the next baby?” She teased, and reached for his hand. Fingers threaded together, Molly pressed their joined hands over the swollen curve of her belly, so he could feel the restless thumping from beneath the cherry-printed top.

It never stopped being incredible.

With a long, slow exhale, Sherlock gathered Molly in closer and smoothed his thumb over the impatient kicking.  He would be dramatic, it was in his nature-- the pirate turned drug addict, that had been transformed back into a pirate.  First mate under a nearly-six-year-old who had inherited his father’s unruly curls, and Molly’s soft gentleness; whose glasses were always smudged with fingerprints, and sliding down his nose.  

His Ulysses, who’d taught Sherlock was it was possible to be equal parts terrified, and overjoyed.

Sometimes he was a dragon and, armed with a cardboard sword, little Ariadne would protect her older brothers from his fire breathing wrath.  

The man who fielded Tristan’s 1001 questions, and traced the freckles on his nose when the softest of his children was sleeping.

He was nappy-changer, and chocolate milk maker.  Reader of bedtime stories, and bandager of skinned knees and paper cuts.  Who still checked on Marian every night before he went to bed, just to make sure she was safe.

The man of the house.  Daddy. Out of his depth.

“Sherlock?”  Molly’s voice was soft as she squeezed his fingers, a half smile playing adoringly at the corners of her mouth.  His Molly, who had made all this possible. Who hadn’t pushed him for a commitment he’d known how to make. And he wanted to.  God, he wanted to. But how did you ask someone to share the rest of their life with you, even when you knew they’d say yes?

He wanted to do it right.  But the moment had simply never been… perfect.  

Not perfect enough.  And now it had been six years, and she was still there.  Still nestled against his chest, and round with his child (and he was supposed to be beyond all that alpha male posturing!  But this was his baby, this incredible mix of them both, and how could that be anything but a miracle?)

“Molly…”  Sherlock began, and his voice crackled unexpectedly over the drawn out O-sound, “Are you happy?”

It was so unexpected, but Molly had no doubts about her answer, “More happy than I ever thought I could be.”  She swore, and kissed the back of his knuckles, “I love you.”

Sherlock nodded faintly, and rested his head against the top of her’s, the tension across his shoulders ebbing as quickly as it had come.  One day, he supposed, he would believe that this was his life. That somehow, he had become this lucky. And until then, he had Molly to remind him.  “I love you, too.”

For a while, they both lapsed quiet, in a contented stillness broken only by the low chattering on the telly, and Molly’s occasional soft moan as Sherlock absently kneaded the small of her back.  Well, he’d learned a few things over five back-to-back pregnancies!

_ ‘... but for me, it was the golden age of heat waves, chopper bikes, and Star Wars…’ _

Sherlock blinked slowly over at the screen, taking in the fellow on the screen as he guided the audience through a strange hybrid of cooking, and chemistry.  Usually he wasn’t one for idle telly, but it had been a long day, and they were both exhausted-- and despite his general disregard for cooking shows, Sherlock found himself intrigued.

“What is this?  And is that a  _ centrifuge _ in his kitchen?”  

“Mmhmm… It’s Heston Blumenthal.  The chef? He does a lot of this.  Science and cooking.” Molly started as Sherlock sat up straighter, his brightening gaze flickering from the screen, to the kitchen, and back again.  

Now, it wasn’t that Sherlock was a bad cook.  Per se. In fact, Molly was sure that he could be a perfectly good cook-- if he could focus on the cooking, instead of getting perpetually sidetracked by the chemical properties of marinara, or what happened when you microwaved half a dozen vinaigrette mushrooms (versus mushrooms without vinaigrette)... Not to mention the resulting mess of vaguely garlic scented slime that had coated the inside of the microwave!

“Look, Molly!  Spherification!  A little sodium alginate, and… Calcium chloride!  We might have those down in my lab!” 

There was never a quiet moment. 

By the time they went to bed, Sherlock had transformed most of the vegetables in the house (along with tea, coffee, orange juice, and the remains of a rather flat ginger beer) into tiny spheres of caviar.  

And in the morning, he glowed with pride when his excited children delighted in the little balls that popped on their tongues.  

There was a disaster in the kitchen when he demonstrated for them, and three children with sticky mouths and fingers, beaming up at Sherlock like he’d discovered the secret to making hated vegetables fun.  

Their little scientists in the making.

From the kitchen door, Molly balanced Marian on her hip, and watched her family.  

Was she happy?  Ecstatic.

And quiet was overrated.

**Author's Note:**

> Have some feels? Come hop into the comments to chat Sherlolly and domestic-y goodness with me!


End file.
